One last Bukowski quote before I leave work for the day:
Who knows? Some day soon I might be bedridden. I'll lay there and paint on sheets of paper tacked to the wall. I'll paint them with a long brush and probably even like it.
But right now, it's the faces of the horseplayers, cardboard faces, horrible, evil, blank, greedy, dying faces, day after day. Tearing up their tickets, reading their various papers, watching the changes on the toteboard as they are being ground away to less and less, as I stand there with them, as I am one with them. We are sick, the suckerfish of hope. Our poor clothing, our old cars. We move toward the mirage, our lives wasted like everybody else's.
More soon.
JS
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